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Show 37 she said. "Do you like hats?" the man asked her. "What?" "Hats. Do you like hats?" One of the two overhead lights in the terminal burned out. "I love hats," he said. "Well, I don't ..." "Hats and hats and hats." The man stood up. He giggled. Leah held her breath. She started scrambling inside her mind. The man moved over toward her. He put one hand atop of his head. He spread his fingers, cupped the palm. "Hats and hats and hats and hats." He laughed. He sat down, almost beside her, close to where her suitcase was. He looked at Leah. Again he smiled. Leah looked at where she'd tied the quilt together. Her breath felt sore and heavy. She studied all the side-stitching. She started counting. How much time -- a pyramid, it seemed, of hours -- had she spent? "That's nice material," the man said. He rubbed his army jacket with a loose hand. "Forty-three, forty-four, forty-five," Leah counted to herself. "Nice material for hats." Forty-six, forty-seven . . . "Chapeaux!" He laughed. "Millinery!" Forty-eight. "Tarns, bonnets, dicers, bennies . . .!" He reached over, tried to touch the quilt. |